That Which is Best
by The Allusive Man
Summary: Corinne Hawke arrives in Kirkwall and spends a year in servitude to Athenril, hiding from the Templars and competing with rival thieves' guilds.
1. The Refugee

The Gallows was a somber place in the best of times. The addition of a few thousand forlorn Fereldan refugees did nothing to improve its cheer. Gaunt and reeking of weeks-old grime and desperation, the seaborne dog lords continued to spill out of the countless ships that made their way across the Waking Sea, past the great bronze Twins that guarded the dark corridor leading to Kirkwall's interior. After weeks of unfettered admittance, the viscount's magnanimity had come to an abrupt end. Refugees were now being turned away by the score. Only the lucky few blessed with an abundance of coin or connections to nobility were allowed past the great iron gate.

Athenril wasn't without sympathy. The Fereldans had lost not just their homes to the Blight, but their homeland as well. Most of them had barely escaped the darkspawn horde, bartering away what few belongings they had managed to flee with for food and fare. They had nowhere else to go. She knew what it was to lose one's home, one's heritage. A city elf most of her life, she had witnessed her cultural identity slowly dwindle to the point of vanishing, for the privilege of being treated like a second class citizen by the human society she had adopted as her own. She also knew that where there was tragedy, there was opportunity. Detached sympathy was all she could offer these refugees. Unless there was a profit to be made, of course.

As a rule, Athenril never ventured down here. Centuries-old brass statues of tortured slaves lined the courtyard, standing as grim reminders of Kirkwall's dark past under the brutal rule of Tevinter magisters. Creators, how depressing. Why would anyone ever come here out of anything but necessity? Today, she had broken her own rule, at the behest of a fool and a liar no less. Gamlen Amell had promised it would be worth her while. She had nearly sent him away to peddle his idiot schemes elsewhere, but something in his tone told her this might be worth her time. She listened, and she recognized truth in his words, varnished though it might be. She hadn't carved out a sizable niche in the Kirkwall underworld by passing up golden chances.

Athenril was no thug that scraped by on low cunning. She read books about places and people, and she paid attention. She knew something of Kirkwall's history, including a little about the Amell lineage. So when Gamlen told her that this Fereldan niece of his was an apostate, the product of a union between Malcolm Hawke and Leandra Amell, herself cousin to Revka Amell, her interest was piqued. Athenril had gotten this far on brains and guts. Still, the Coterie and the other guilds were always squeezing, always testing her strength. More so now that she was an established player and not just an ambitious up-and-comer. It was a constant struggle to keep what she had taken. An infusion of new talent would be welcome.

And so she waited impatiently in the least-busy corner of the Gallows that she could find, accompanied by a couple of her best people. When Corinne Hawke finally appeared before her, pulling back her hood and announcing herself with a brilliant smile, Athenril feared she had wasted her time.

The shemlen woman appeared sickly at a glance, almost as if... No, she didn't have the Taint. This was something else. Nearly translucent, her skin was devoid of natural color, excepting only a smattering of light freckles across the cheeks and nose. A small, elegant tattoo, inked in blue, adorned one temple, blossoming from the corner of her right eye. A stylized butterfly wing? Difficult to tell, as it was partially obscured by a lock of the woman's shortish, barely-kempt white hair. No, not quite white. There was a hint of yellow to it, just enough to make one wonder if it was a trick of the sunlight. Most startling of all were the woman's eyes. Pale, pale blue, like frozen lightning, they almost seemed like afterimages, the result of having stared at the sun for too long. Oddly, the irises wobbled hypnotically from side to side, stilling only once the woman turned her head ever so slightly to the left and fixed her angled gaze on Athenril.

Interesting.

Did she say that aloud? Judging by the alabaster woman's wry smile, she supposed she must have.

Athenril had never seen anyone quite like Hawke, though she had heard stories of under-dwelling creatures similarly afflicted with an absence or near-absence of color. At a second glance, it would be fair to say the woman was strangely pretty, perhaps even beautiful, under the simple leathers and drab, filthy clothing. Judging by the firmness of her grip when she extended a gloved hand along with a witticism that passed for a greeting, perhaps her constitution was not so great a concern after all. Her two companions, a pleasingly muscled young man and a ginger-haired slab of a woman, certainly appeared stout and capable enough. Predictably, the three shems were accompanied by a war hound who plopped down on his haunches at Hawke's feet, panting contentedly and eying Athenril with an intelligence that was more than animal.

The young man would have to be Carver, the younger brother. A skilled swordsman by Gamlen's account. And the ginger must be Aveline, formerly an officer in King Cailan's army, until it was routed at Ostagar. Soldiers, both. They could be useful, certainly, but Athenril didn't come down here just to hire a couple of sellswords. No, if there was to be a bargain, she had to determine if Hawke was the prize she suspected she was.

They talked for a short time. Hawke asked questions, Athenril answered them, and they agreed upon a test of Hawke's competence. Hawke left and returned a short while later with two gold sovereigns in hand, retrieved from a recalcitrant merchant who had thought to renege on a business arrangement with Athenril. The ashen woman dropped the coins into Athenril's hands with a clink and a wink.

"A good start," Athenril said, tucking the sovereigns away. "My man had eyes on your meeting. Says you sweet-talked the gold out of Cavril. Never even had to lift your weapons."

Hawke shrugged. "I prefer to use my words. They're less pointy. Most of the time."

Athenril nodded. "Good. I like that. But what happens when your tongue fails you? Can you handle yourself?"

"I haven't had any complaints so far. About my tongue or otherwise."

Athenril chuckled. "Show me then. Just you and my two guards. She nodded, in turn, toward the elves on either side of her. One male, one female. "Your companions can sit this one out. And no magic. I can help keep Templar attention away from you while you're working for me, but you will need to exercise some discretion. Bribes only go so far. If you start hurling fireballs every time you get into a scuffle, you will end up down here, permanently. You're no good to me if you fall under the Knight Commander's yoke."

Hawke's bemused expression turned serious. "My magic serves only that which is best in me. I do not use it pettily. But I have no problem pummeling these two guards of yours with a stick, if that is what you require." She looked to Carver and Aveline, both of whom had reached to unsheathe their weapons, despite Athenril's conditions. "Stand down."

Aveline spoke, a scowl on her face. "I don't like this, Hawke. We can still go work for Meeran. Mercenary work is bloody, but at least it's honest."

"Father was a mercenary before he settled down with Mother," Carver helpfully added. "And I rather liked that Meeran fellow."

It was Hawke's turn to scowl. "After the way he leered at me like a starving man eying a plump steak? I would sooner go back to Lothering. Now just stand back and let me handle this."

Hawke looked down at the war hound. "That goes for you too, Tanner," she said, pointing at Carver's feet. The hound whined pitifully, but shuffled obediently over to Carver.

Athenril watched the exchange with an arched eyebrow, until Hawke's focus returned to her. "That settled?"

"Yes." Hawke reached for her staff. There was a rising anger in her voice now. "Talk of steak has set my empty stomach to rumbling again. I'm certain that I smell even worse than my hound, I've lost track of which of these stains in my clothes are blood and which are puke, and I've been sleeping on cobblestone for three straight nights. Before that, I spent a lovely two-week cruise in a ship's hold, overstuffed with all manner of sneezing, snoring, crying, and dying people. I can't remember what a mattress feels like, but I intend to sleep on one tonight. Uncle Gamlen's flat sounds like a palace right now." She readied her staff. "This journey has claimed the lives of my sister and Aveline's husband. So, by all means, let's get it over with."

Without another word, Athenril motioned her guards to attack. There was no real danger, of course. They were skilled hunters, but she had instructed them not to maim or kill. For all her bravado, Hawke didn't stand a chance against them. Not without magic or the assistance of her companions. Athenril just wanted to get a sense for how she comported herself in a physical confrontation. It was important that she know these things about her employees. It allowed her to plan properly.

Athenril barely had time to finish the thought. Hawke's staff was a blur, her movements a surprising economy of speed, grace and precision. The female guard immediately doubled over and fell to her knees with a sickening squeal, jabbed squarely in the gut by the heel of Hawke's staff. The other end of the staff neatly deflected a sword blow, before the heel was once again in motion, swinging around in an arc to strike the man's sword hand with a telling crunch. His face registered a fleeting moment of surprise and confusion as his weapon clattered to the cobblestone. Then the pain hit him. He clutched at his hand and let out a bellicose stream of elven and human profanities, even as the female guard proceeded to wretch up the remains of her morning meal on the courtyard floor.

Just like that, the fight was over. What came next was just as surprising.

Hawke rushed to the injured man, took his broken hand and proceeded to mend it with healing magic, enlisting Carver and Aveline to obscure her activity from watchful eyes.

Athenril folded her arms and waited in silent astonishment.

Interesting. Very interesting.


	2. Of Elves and Shems

Athenril was a woman-child, barely past anara'shal, when her father fell to betrayal. She worked for him then, splitting duties as a runner, cutpurse and a shill. Papa had promised to hand the reigns of the guild over to her someday. First, he said, she would have to learn how to do every single job in it, and do it well. He had been right about that, and a great many other things. She had thought him the wisest man in the world, but his final, most valuable lesson to her was one of folly.

When she discovered his corpse, two telltale knives in the back, Athenril knew not to fall to her knees and cry. Instead she ran. The betrayer's henchmen chased her into Kirkwall's sewers, but she was quick, and she knew her way through the dark. The sewers led to a network of old, abandoned mining tunnels and cut off sections of the Deep Roads. Somehow, she managed to run or sneak past all of the nightmare things that dwell down there and made her way through to the other side of the Vimmarks. By the time she stumbled out of a cave and into the blinding light, she had lost count of the days spent in darkness.

She had escaped, but she was desperate and hungry, a young city elf far out of her element. She wandered northward through the wilderness for more uncounted days, until she collapsed from thirst and hunger. By the grace of the Creators, a pair of Dalish hunters stumbled across her. They carried her to their camp, where she was nursed back to health.

She spent three tumultuous seasons among the Dalish, learning the language and the old ways of the Elvhen. She became one of them. One morning, after the hunters left in search of game, Templars from Starkhaven stormed the camp. With a frightening conviction in their eyes, the gleamingly-armored soldiers beheaded the Keeper and then proceeded to butcher the rest of the clan. They shouted of duty to Andraste and the Maker as they bloodied their blades on Dalish women and children, but Athenril saw nothing holy in what happened that day.

Once again, Athenril escaped death by a hairsbreadth, hiding beneath a caravel and sprinting away at an opportune moment. She fled west to Wildervale, where she quickly stowed away on a trade caravan to Cumberland. It was in that great Nevarran city that she spent the next eighteen years of her life, absorbing the lessons of the streets, and reading every book she could steal or otherwise put her hands on. She was tougher than the shems. She would make herself smarter than them, too.

She could have stayed in Cumberland and lived well enough for an elf, but she could never shake the image of those knives in her father's back. When she was ready, she returned to Kirkwall. She would find a way to avenge her father and retake what he had lost. She had not forgotten the face of the shemlen who betrayed him.

As it had been with her father, the favorite part of her job was taking inventory of newly acquired contraband. The fruits of the most recent day's labor were piled up before her, like a smorgasbord of Feastday presents. Hawke had returned from the docks with three crates bearing the seal of the Orlesian Port Authority. The apostate lingered, curious as a cat that had discovered a newly opened cupboard. Carver was absent, gone chasing after one of Athenril's pickpockets, a giggling girl that had brazenly swiped his coin purse and darted into the shadows.

Hawke usually wasn't one to dwell after completing a job, but she was clearly eager to know what was in the crates she had retrieved. It wasn't often they were able to obtain Orlesian luxury items. Athenril had been tipped off by one of her old Cumberland contacts. The first two crates had not disappointed, revealing caskets of pickled wyvern meat and bottles of _aquae lucidius_. There were only a few small bottles of the rare hallucinogenic liquor, but they would fetch the prettiest penny of all.

With a couple flicks and a twist of her dagger, Athenril cut the twine and popped the lid off the third crate. "Were there any problems?" she asked, looking to Hawke as she reached in and scooped out wads of packing material.

"Not really," Hawke shrugged. "Some Carta dwarves were sniffing around the warehouse, but not to worry. They were perfect gentlemen."

Athenril snorted. "There's no such thing as perfect gentlemen in this business. Or anywhere, in my experience."

"Thank the Maker for that," Hawke grinned.

Athenril shook her head. Always the jester, Hawke. There was no denying the woman's competence, though. In three months, not a single job given to her had gone wrong. Not far wrong, anyway. There had been a few rough encounters, to be sure, but Hawke never came back empty-handed, or anything more than slightly mussed. She was a silver-tongued negotiator first, but an amazingly ferocious combatant when circumstances demanded a more violent approach.

If anything, Gamlen had undersold Hawke's abilities. The bribe money spent to get Hawke's group into the city had been recuperated within two months, and Athenril's operation was starting to gather momentum. Profits were up, and new business opportunities were presenting themselves almost daily. Perhaps it was time to expand. Of course, expansion would bring stiffer resistance. Her operation was small potatoes compared to the Coterie, but they did not suffer competition gladly. She had not thought to challenge them so soon, but then she had not dreamed that fate would drop someone like Hawke into her lap. She could never fully trust a shemlen, but that didn't mean she couldn't use Hawke to expedite her plans.

The crate contained dozens of boxes of chocolate-covered brandied cherries, and one other thing. Oddly, a lone porcelain mask had made its way into the crate, slipping down to one side before breaking into two pieces. Athenril extracted the pieces and examined them. Held together, they formed a full-sized mask. Half black, half white, separated by a diagonal line slashing down from right to left across the bridge of the nose. The lips were ruby red. The lower, white portion of the mask was marked by a single black tear on the cheek. It was simple, not particularly fine craftsmanship, but it might nevertheless have fetched a couple of sovereigns when whole. Worthless now. A shame.

"So I needn't be concerned about fallout with the Carta?" Athenril asked, setting the pieces of the mask to one side.

"No. There were a few scouts poking around the area. They saw us and got curious. A few stern words were all that was required. Tanner growled, Carver barked, the dwarves left, and we got in and out before they could come back with more of their sawed-off friends."

Athenril nodded. "Good." Tearing the ribbon and protective paper wrapping from one of the small candy boxes, she liberated two of the cordials within. She tossed one to Hawke. With a look of delight on her snow-complected face, the woman plucked it lightly from midair and popped it into her mouth.

After a quiet moment of shared indulgence, Hawke spoke. "We didn't often have sweets like this growing up. From time to time, Mother would make the most delicious tarts with berries and other fruits. But chocolate! That was a rarity." Her voice suddenly turned wistful. "Bethany would have adored this."

Hawke had only mentioned her sister once before, on that first day in the Gallows, but Athenril had overheard Carver complain of growing up in a household of mages on more than one occasion. "Your sister… She was like you?"

Hawke picked up the two pieces of the mask and examined them. Her voice drifted away as she spoke. "Bethany was the best of us. She was the prettiest girl in Lothering. Everyone said so. And smart as a whip. She had Mother's kindness and Father's dry wit. She was much more subtle than I. And, yes, she was a mage. Her magic was... different than mine. More like Father's."

Athenril narrowed her eyes. Truth be told, she had seen very few examples of the apostate's magic. Nor had any tales of Hawke's magic use gotten back to her. The woman was obviously very cautious. "Different? Different how?"

Hawke's eyes had gone as far away as her voice. If she heard the question, she gave no sign.

"Hawke?"

The apostate looked to Athenril as if suddenly realizing she was there. "Is it okay if I take this?" she asked, holding up the broken mask. Then she turned and left without waiting for the answer.

Athenril bit down on another cordial as she considered her next step.


End file.
